The bell above the door chimed softly.

Inside the pastelería, the thick heat from the ovens hung heavy—a suffocating blanket of caramelized sugar and roasted chestnuts. Katerina closed the door against the howling autumn wind, shaking the freezing mist from her wool shawl.

She adjusted her lace cuffs. Left. Right. Standard protocol.

The conversations in the corners of the room died instantly. Silk skirts brushing the floorboards always had that effect.

Let them stare, Katerina thought, her fingers tightening beneath her cuffs until her fingernails bit into her palms.

"Good morning, Señorita Katerina," Mateo said, stepping out from the back kitchen. He wiped his flour-dusted hands on his apron and offered a low, textbook bow. He didn't look at her face. Not yet. He just slid a neatly tied box across the wood counter. "Right on time. I just finished packing the order for the manor."

"Thank you, Mateo. I know it was a last-minute request," Katerina replied. Her voice was smooth, cool, and perfectly calibrated for the ears of the old women whispering by the bread racks.

"Never a trouble for the Mayor’s household," Mateo said, his smile quick and practiced. He tapped the top of the cardboard box, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second on the twine. "The kitchen smells entirely of the plum brandy glaze this morning. I made sure they were deeply soaked, just as your father prefers."

Katerina handed him a silver coin. For a single, fleeting heartbeat, her gloved fingers brushed against his bare skin. The contrast was staggering—his heat against her structural ice.

"How thoughtful of you," she said, her expression remaining flawlessly blank as she withdrew her hand. "He will appreciate the effort. Change won't be necessary."

"Thank you, Señorita. Have a safe walk back up the hill."

"Thank you. Have a pleasant morning," Katerina murmured, her gaze already drifting past his shoulder toward the frosted glass of the bakery window.

A good girl, she thought, the silver coin vanishing into his apron pocket. That was what her father called her when she brought him his vices. That was the lie that kept the iron gates of the manor from slamming shut forever. Her father knew everything about this village—every shipment, every militia rifle, every tax coin. But he didn't know the scent of flour on a boy’s skin, or the bruises hidden beneath her emerald silk gown.

Outside, a young village girl was standing by a nearby market stall. The girl was laughing—truly laughing, her cheeks flushed red from the cold as she traded sharp, teasing banter with an old fruit vendor. The vendor didn't bow. He didn't lower his eyes. He just barked a laugh and tossed her an apple.

A sharp, physical ache twisted in Katerina's chest. Her corset suddenly felt too tight.

Just once, she thought, watching the girl bite into the fruit. Just once to cross the square without a militia guard trailing five paces behind.

To be seen. To be known in the daylight, rather than worshipped like a porcelain doll or touched only when the candles were blown out.

Turning away from the window, her gaze drifted past the market stalls toward the distant, shadowed tree line on the village outskirts.

The forest canopy was endless, dark, and heavy with mist. The village elders whispered about it in terrified tones, and the militia kept their weapons loaded for whatever prowled between the pines. But looking at the deep, quiet shadows, a strange, seductive pull hummed beneath Katerina's ribs.

It was beautiful out there. Untamed. Quiet. A place where names and cages didn't exist.

She picked up the box, looping the twine around her fingers, and stepped back out into the freezing October wind. The cold hit her instantly, biting at the exposed skin of her neck. She braced her shoulders, keeping her jaw set as she began the walk back toward the manor.

Let him try to sell me off to the capital, she thought, her eyes fixed on the distant, dark horizon. Let him try.

Crossing the cobblestones, the sharp clinking of milk bottles and the shift of a woven basket made her turn her head.

Walking away from the blacksmith's forge, Carmela Montenegro hurried past the bakery toward the market stalls, her eight-year-old daughter Lucía trailing just a half-step behind her. The older woman carried a basket laden with eggs and fresh jars of milk, her dark wool skirt immaculate despite the black mud splashing from the passing supply wagons. Even while carrying provisions like a common laborer, her posture remained unyielding, her chin tilted at the exact, haughty angle of a lady who still believed she ruled an estate.

As they neared, Carmela’s sharp, calculating eyes locked onto Katerina’s emerald gown. Her gaze lingered on the fine silk, but the usual frozen envy in her expression fractured, replaced by an intense, desperate hunger.

Look at me, Katerina thought, reading the raw hope bleeding through the woman's aristocratic mask. Carmela wasn't just looking at a dress; she was looking at a ghost of the life she wished to regain, a golden standard she desperately wanted back for her family.

Beside her, little Lucía stopped dead in her tracks. The girl's round eyes went wide, staring up at Katerina as if a storybook had chosen that exact moment to come alive on the muddy cobblestones. To the child, Katerina wasn't a mayor's asset or a prisoner in silk. She was a beautiful princess, flawless and magic.

A sudden, vicious wave of jealousy slammed into Katerina's chest, stealing her breath.

You lucky, foolish girl, Katerina thought, her gaze locking onto the child's small, dirt-streaked hands. Lucía would grow up poor. She would carry baskets, she would scrub floors, and she would know the biting cold of a Navarion winter. But she would never be bound to the life Katerina endured. Her father would never carve away her rough edges to turn her into a trophy. She would never be sold to a wealthy suitor from the capital to secure a madman's legacy. Lucía was safe from the gilded stage. She was free to be a person, not a symbol.

Katerina forced her features back into a mask of pure, untouchable ice. She paused her stride just enough to acknowledge them, offering a small, elegant nod. "Señora Montenegro. Good morning."

Carmela snapped out of her trance, her lips thinning into a tight line of pure, defensive pride as she tightly gripped her basket. "Señorita," she muttered, her voice tight and hollow.

With a firm tug on her daughter’s sleeve, Carmela pulled the staring child away, steering Lucía toward the crowded market lanes. Lucía looked back over her shoulder just once, her wide eyes still full of wonder, before her mother pulled her into the crowd.

Katerina tightened her grip on the box of pastries, the cardboard crushing slightly beneath her fingers. She walked faster toward the iron gates of her father’s manor. The fog was rolling in from the woods—thick, dark, and welcoming.

Let it come, she thought.